


Sincerely Yours

by heyacas (lilypond)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mail Carrier Dean, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilypond/pseuds/heyacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Delivering the mail is, frankly, really fucking boring.</p><p>At least, until Castiel moves in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sincerely Yours

Delivering the mail is, frankly, really fucking boring.

It's exhausting too, for that matter, because Dean's route takes him out beyond the outskirts of town and into the wooded hills, up dusty dirt roads that are better suited for horses than cars, where he has to pull off the road if a car is coming the other way. He doesn't get _any_ of the easy streets Jo and Ash get – no one-stop streets with a dozen households packed into one handy metal box. No, _he_ gets the legwork.

However loudly he complains at the depot, though, he doesn't _really_ mind that much. Because what he gets, they don't. Almost nobody meets them at the mailboxes to chat. And while he gets his share of silent nods and deserted driveways, there's also Ms Moseley, who can keep him caught up talking at her mailbox for half an hour before he realizes he's running late, and seems to know what's going on inside his head better than he does sometimes. There's Frank, who was more than a bit scary at first, but once he decided Dean could be trusted – to the extent he ever trusts anybody – he turned out to be pretty lonely and glad to have a few minutes every day to talk to Dean, even if it was mostly about his latest conspiracy theories. There's even Rufus, his uncle Bobby's oldest friend, conveniently right at the end of his route when he has time to come in for a beer.

Then there's Castiel.

The first time he saw him, after Castiel moved into the old cabin, he'd nearly driven the truck straight into the mailbox. Even in a tattered gray robe and beat-up slippers, with ruffled bedhead and red, sleep-stained eyes, he was... _gorgeous_. Dean had been more than a little disappointed when Castiel had taken his mail with a curt nod and padded back to his house, coffee trailing a line of steam behind him in the chill morning air.

So Dean spent weeks trying to warm him up, trying his most charming smiles and friendliest greetings, putting out dozens of openers for conversations that Castiel just never picked up.

So one morning he gave up. He'd had a shitty night, drank too much, and woken up to an even shittier morning. He made his route with as little talking as he could politely get away with. When he got to Castiel's house, he handed his mail over silently and turned back to the truck, not even bothering to try for eye contact today.

“Dean?”

Dean blinked in surprise. When he turned around Castiel's blue eyes focused sharply on his for once. He hadn't thought Castiel even knew his name.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Are you all right? You don't seem...yourself today.”

Dean waved the question away. “I'm fine. I mean, I'll _be_ fine. Just a bad night.”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully. “Wait here.”

He jogged back up the driveway to his house. Dean stood awkwardly at the mailbox, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep warm. A minute later Castiel was back, holding out a bag of -

“Cookies?” Dean said, peering inside. They smelled amazing, all heady dark chocolate and warm brown sugar.

He could swear Castiel blushed. “Yes, I – I had a frustrating night, too. When I get writer's block, I bake.”

“You bake?” Dean echoed. “That's...”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. _Oh._ He probably thought Dean was going to make fun of him.

“That's awesome, Cas,” Dean said, giving him his first genuine smile of the morning.

Castiel didn't seem to notice – or at least, didn't seem to mind – the nickname. He just smiled back, the corners of his eyes crinkling – which Dean totally did _not_ think was adorable.

“I gotta keep going,” Dean said reluctantly. “But...thanks, seriously.”

“They're just cookies,” Castiel said softly. “But you're welcome.”

Dean watched in his mirror as he drove away. Castiel stood at his mailbox, watching after the truck all the way until Dean turned the corner and was gone.

Maybe he wasn't such a lost cause.

 

-

 

The next morning Castiel was sullen as ever, but managed a “hello, Dean” before taking his mail.

Yesterday felt like too much progress to give up so quickly, so Dean said the first thing that came to mind, desperate for Cas not to leave quite yet.

“What do you write?”

Castiel stiffened. Shit, had he said the wrong thing? Was his writing something Castiel was really private about? But he'd mentioned it yesterday, so it couldn't be some big secret. Right?

“I...well, I'm trying to write a novel. It's not going as well as I'd like.”

"Is that why you're so cranky in the mornings?” _Shit_ , what? What the fuck was wrong with him today? He had _not_ meant to say that out loud.

But Castiel just laughed – and how unfair was it that his laugh was perfect and adorable too?

“Maybe a little. Mostly I just hate mornings. I don't know how you do this every day.”

Dean shrugged. “I've been doing it for three years. Took a lot of getting used to. Never did manage to get out of the habit of staying up all night, though. I usually get about four hours of sleep.”

Castiel frowned. “That can't be healthy. You should take better care of yourself.”

Dean couldn't keep a dopey grin off his face. “Aw, shucks, Cas. Didn't know you cared.”

It was pretty cold outside, and Dean's nose and cheeks were probably pretty weather-bitten and red themselves, but that _definitely_ looked like a blush on Castiel's face.

“Anyway, I _am_ healthy. I don't even get sick,” Dean said. “My brother caught every damn virus that went around school when we were kids, and I took care of him every time and never got sick once. It's my superpower or something.”

Castiel just raised an eyebrow and hummed skeptically.

 

-

 

And so the next day, the universe conspired to prove Castiel right, and Dean woke up with a fever, shivering and puking, two hours before his shift was due to start.

Ellen was shocked but didn't press for details when he called in – it was the first time he'd ever had to, even braving through the worst of his hangovers (because that was _his_ fault, after all). Jo and Ash would have to split his route for the day in addition to their own, with nobody available for backup on such short notice. He felt bad, but not bad enough to keep him from crawling back under the covers and curling up to go back to sleep for the rest of the day.

His last conscious thought before he drifted off was to wonder whether Castiel would miss him today.

 

-

 

At this point, actually, Castiel might be wondering if Dean's dead. It had been three days before Jo bullied him into seeing a doctor, because _your route sucks, Winchester, how the fuck do you do this every day?_

It took another week of antibiotics and Ellen spreading his route around to the rest of the drivers before he was pronounced well enough to return to work – and no longer contagious, he'd feel terrible if he got anybody on his route sick.

It was harder than he'd thought it would be to get up at the crack of dawn again, but he'd honestly missed it, too. Ms Moseley greeted him with a warm hug and a thorough scolding for not looking after himself better. Frank was incredibly relieved to see him, having not opened any of his mail since Dean had been gone because _I know they're your friends, Dean, but you never know who could be compromised._

Castiel, though, wasn't waiting by his box this morning. Dean's heart sank as he stuffed the mail directly into the box for the first time since Castiel had moved in, climbing back into his truck and starting down the road.

“Dean! Dean, wait!”

He braked the truck again. “Cas?”

Castiel jogged down the road to meet him. “I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd be back. They told me you were sick.”

“I have been,” Dean said. “Just got the okay to come back yesterday.”

“I'm...I'm glad you're back,” Castiel said. “I mean, I'm glad you're feeling better now.”

“Me too,” Dean grinned. “You're the one who jinxed me, though. I got sick the day after _you_ told me off for not taking care of myself.”

Castiel smiled softly. “Well, I won't say I told you so. You've obviously suffered enough. Anyway, I brought you something. I just baked them.”

Dean hadn't even noticed he was holding anything. Castiel handed him a soft, steaming muffin. It smelled heavenly.

“It's apple cinnamon,” Castiel said. “I hope that's okay.”

“That's _perfect,_ Cas. Smells almost like apple pie.” Dean took a large bite of the muffin and sighed in appreciation, eyelids fluttering closed as he savored it.

“Damn, this is good,” he said once he'd swallowed.

“As good as apple pie?” Cas smiled.

“ _Nothing_ is as good as apple pie. Though you'd probably kick ass at making that, too.”

“I guess I know the way to _your_ heart now,” Castiel said jokingly. His eyes went wide the next second, as though that wasn't at _all_ what he'd meant to say.

“I guess you do,” Dean said with a wink.

 

-

 

“I've finished the book,” Castiel said without preamble the next day.

“Cas, that's awesome! Told you you could do it.”

Castiel chuckled. “Don't congratulate me yet, I still have to actually find a publisher.”

“Hey, just finishing a book is a really big deal. And I'm sure you'll get published in no time.”

“I hope you're right,” Castiel said, looking down at his feet with a sigh. “My brother seems to think so, though he's obviously biased.”

“Your brother?”

“Mm, yes. He's acting as my agent. He lives in New York.”

“Wow,” Dean said. “And hey, if he thinks it'll happen, it'll happen. He should know, right?”

Castiel smiled up at Dean warmly. “I suppose you're right.”

 

-

 

But it didn't happen right away. In fact, nothing much happened for the next month, and Castiel seemed more anxious every day. Dean's stomach had never been happier, kept stuffed with a stream of cookies, muffins, donuts and croissants every morning.

“God, Cas, you could open a bakery with this stuff,” Dean sighed one day.

“I don't want to open a bakery,” Castiel snapped. “I want my damn book published.”

Dean's eyes widened and he took a step back towards his truck. “Jesus, Cas, I was just saying it's good. It was a fucking _compliment._ ”

Castiel's face fell. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't mean to...I'm just so stressed about this. You didn't deserve that.”

“Hey, it's okay,” Dean said, squeezing Castiel's shoulder comfortingly.

“It's not,” Castiel insisted. “You've been such a great friend to me, and I...”

He trailed off, his eyes on Dean's arm. It dawned on Dean that this was the first time either of them had actually touched the other. He pulled his hand away and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“No, really though, it's okay. I get it. No harm done.”

Castiel didn't respond, blinking at him dazedly.

“I uh,” Dean cleared his throat. “Anyway, I better go. Maybe we'll get some good news tomorrow, yeah?”

Castiel hummed in agreement, still looking distracted. Dean's stomach fluttered nervously for the rest of the day. Maybe he needed to stop eating so many donuts.

 

-

 

The next morning he couldn't wait to get to Castiel's house. So maybe he gave his mail more than a passing glance today. So maybe he caught sight of a letter with the return address of one of the major publishing houses Castiel had submitted his proposal to.

This had to be the good news Cas had been waiting for, and he couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he handed it to him.

He was immensely disappointed when Castiel's face crumpled at seeing the envelope.

“Cas?”

“Shit,” Castiel grumbled. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Hey, you haven't even opened it yet. It might be good news, right?”

Castiel shook his head sadly. “No, Dean. Mail is bad. If they accept you, they call. If they reject you, they send a letter.”

“Oh,” Dean said, heart breaking a little at the forlorn expression on Castiel's face. “Sorry, Cas. I really thought it was something good.”

“It's okay,” Castiel said with a sad smile. “I couldn't expect to get accepted my first try. Stephen King got rejected 30 times before Carrie was published, you know.”

“See, there you go,” Dean said. “It's proportional, right? Every rejection just means when you do get published you'll be that much more famous.”

“I don't especially want to be famous, Dean,” Castiel sighed. “I just want my books out there. I want to share them with people, I want to share my stories. Why does that have to be so hard?”

Before he could talk himself out of it, Dean pulled Castiel into a tight hug. Castiel tensed for a second, and Dean was afraid he'd just done something incredibly stupid.

But then Castiel relaxed into him, tucking his face into his neck and twisting his hands into Dean's jacket.

“It's gonna happen, Cas,” Dean murmured into his hair, trying to ignore how wonderful he smelled, like old books and fresh bread and apples, somehow perfect and so innately _Cas_.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel sighed.

He didn't let go for maybe a little longer than was necessary. But Castiel was going through a tough time, and if Dean understood what he'd said right, he didn't have much else in the way of a support system around – just his brother in New York, far away from the quiet northwestern woods. So hey, he needed the comfort.

And Castiel _did_ look happier afterwards, if not exactly calm.

 

-

 

The letters poured in faster, Dean's heart dropping a little more every time. Castiel looked so small and sad with every one.

“Cas,” Dean said one morning. “Do you...do you want me to not bring them to you?”

“What?”

“When I get a letter for you from a publisher. I can not bring them if you want. I mean, if it'll help.”

“I appreciate that, Dean. I really do. But...” he took a deep breath. “I'll need them once I'm published, right? So I can tell everyone how many times I was rejected before my bestselling book came out?” Castiel smiled the first real smile Dean had seen in days.

“That's true,” Dean said with a wide grin. “And every one of the ones who turned you down will be crying and wishing they'd realized what they could have had before it was too late.”

Castiel tilted his head thoughtfully at Dean. “Yes,” he said, suddenly sounding very far away. “What they...could have had.”

Dean spent the rest of his route with the music cranked all the way up, determined to keep himself from thinking too hard about the look on Castiel's face when he drove away.

 

-

 

It was another two weeks before it happened. Castiel wasn't waiting at his mailbox, and Dean's chest tightened in disappointment for the few seconds before he heard a door slam, and Castiel was rushing down the driveway towards him.

“Dean! I got the call!”

“You – you mean?”

“I'm getting published! It happened! It's really happening, Dean!”

Dean caught him in his arms tightly and laughed. “God, Cas, that's great! I told you it'd happen.”

“You did,” Castiel said, winding his own arms around Dean's waist and tilting his head back to look at him, his eyes bright and shining, smiling so hard it had to hurt. “Every single day.”

It occurred to Dean that their faces were suddenly very close. Just a few inches of cold morning air left between their lips – he could lean in so easily, right now, and -

A warbling, tinny melody pierced the still air. They blinked at each other for a moment before it rang out again. “Oh,” Castiel said dazedly. “My phone.”

“Right,” Dean swallowed hard, letting him go and missing his warmth the second he did. Castiel almost looked as upset about the interruption as Dean felt.

“Just...just a minute,” Castiel said, fishing the phone out of his pocket.

“Sure,” Dean nodded.

“Hello? Oh, good morning, Gabriel. _Yes_ , it's still morning. They...really? Do I _have_ to? Well, I suppose I knew I'd have to eventually, but...so _soon_?”

Dean tuned out the conversation as well as he could – though if Castiel had wanted privacy badly enough he probably could have walked away - idly sifting through a pile of mail he'd already sorted out at the start of his route.

Castiel cleared his throat behind him when his phone call was over.

“Well,” he said, looking stunned and more than a little terrified. “I guess I'm going to New York.”

“You're...what?”

“I – I have to take a trip to New York. The publishers want to meet with me. I never really thought about what would happen when I got to this part, I guess.”

“Shit,” Dean said quietly. “You gonna be okay?”

“I think so,” Castiel said, staring into the distance. “Yes,” he nodded firmly, eyes focused on Dean again. “Yes, I'll be fine. This is necessary, and I have to see it through. And, anyway, I'll have Gabriel there, at least, if not...” The _if not you_ went unspoken, but Dean felt warmer anyway.

“Well – here,” Dean said, grabbing the latest rejection letter from some unlucky company and a pen from his pocket.

“This is my number,” Dean said, scribbling. “If you want to, you know, text me or call me. If you need to talk to someone that's not your brother.”

He felt suddenly stupid as he held the envelope out.

But Castiel took it with a smile. “Thank you, Dean. I'll try not to bother you too much.”

“Don't worry about it. You could never bother me. I like talking to you.”

“I like talking to you, too,” Castiel echoed quietly.

 

-

 

The next weeks were a sort of slow torture. Castiel texted a few times, but his brother kept him too busy to call, and New York was apparently less frightening and more interesting than Castiel had thought it would be. There were museums and art galleries, plays and symphonies, and Dean had never felt more keenly just how unimpressive his life as a small-town mail carrier really was.

When Castiel texted him to say he'd decided to stay for another week, it hit Dean that he was probably losing him for good. Why would he want to stay out here in the middle of the woods when he could have New York? What could he possibly see in Dean after being surrounded by all those brilliant and beautiful people?

Then one morning when Dean stopped at Castiel's house, leaving the mail tucked behind the door of his storage shed as he had done for the past two and a half weeks, he realized that Castiel had never even shown him his book.

Dean had come to feel like he might be Castiel's closest, possibly _only_ friend, and he hadn't even felt like showing Dean his book. Maybe he didn't think Dean was intelligent enough to get it. Maybe he thought Dean wouldn't understand it.

Maybe Castiel just didn't _care_ enough.

Castiel's texts stayed sporadic for the rest of his trip, doing nothing to convince Dean otherwise. Dean spent the time kicking himself, cursing himself for even dreaming he could ever be good enough for Castiel. Smart, gorgeous, funny Castiel, with his muffins and cookies and permanent bedhead, who was going to fly far away and leave him behind.

 

-

 

The day Castiel was waiting for him at the mailbox again, he almost didn't stop. For once, he didn't even have any mail for him – the rejection letters had trickled to a stop, of course, and he got little else anymore.

But he _couldn't_ just drive by. He just wasn't strong enough, and something in him whispered to take what he could get. Hoard all the time he could get with Castiel before he left, memorize him as well as he could before he lost him.

When he stepped out of the truck, though, it was harder than he could have imagined it'd be to see him again. He hadn't even realized how much he wanted him until it became horribly clear just how much he could never have him. He never had a chance.

So Castiel's smile, bright and beautiful as it was, did little to thaw him out.

“Dean!” Castiel threw his arms around Dean's shoulders. “I missed you so much.”

“You did?” Dean said numbly.

“Well, of course I did,” Castiel said, leaning his head back to look up at him, puzzled. When Dean didn't respond, he pulled away slowly. “Dean, what's wrong?”

“Uh, nothing. Just...tired.”

Castiel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. Dean knew Castiel could read him well enough by now to know that he was lying, but he didn't call him out on it.

“So, uh. How'd everything go?”

Castiel's face lit up again. “Very well,” he said with a dreamy smile that tugged painfully at Dean's heart. “Better than I could have...Dean, they're already discussing movie rights. A _movie,_ Dean. Can you imagine?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess. Well, not really. I don't even know what it's about.”

“You...what?”

“You've never told me.”

“I...I haven't? I've never shown you...?”

“No, you haven't,” Dean said, climbing back into his truck. “I've gotta go. Congratulations, Cas.”

Dean did his best not to look in the mirror as he drove away, but couldn't help but glance at it right before he turned the corner.

Castiel looked absolutely crushed, his shoulders slumped as he watched Dean drive away. And he'd been so happy before Dean came along and ruined it. No wonder Dean wasn't good enough for him. He probably would have ruined the rest of his life, too.

 

-

 

“I'm sorry,” was the first thing Castiel said when he stepped out of his truck. “I don't know why it never occurred to me. It felt like...it sounds so stupid, saying it out loud, but it felt like you just knew. I was too caught up in _writing_ it to remember you didn't know what I was writing, and then I was too stressed about publishing it. But I didn't mean to keep it from you, that wasn't my intention at all.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder, stuffing the mail into his box instead of handing it to him. He willed himself not to look up. “Whatever. You weren't obligated to. Not like we're even really friends. I mean, I'm just the mailman.”

When he looked up Castiel was frozen, eyes wide and hurt for a split second before he composed his expression into something blank and cold.

“I see,” Castiel said. “I thought...but yes, you're right. You're just the mailman. Of course.”

It stung so much more from his mouth, even if they were the exact same words. And maybe if he'd looked up sooner, he would have noticed the thick stack of paper tucked under Castiel's arm.

“Is that...?” Dean said faintly, heart sinking.

“If you're even interested,” Castiel said. “I suppose I shouldn't have assumed.”

“Cas, of course I...”

“I need to get back to work. I have a sequel to write.” Castiel shoved the manuscript out, almost dropping it before Dean could grab it.

“Really? That's...that's awesome, Cas,” Dean tried.

But Castiel was already halfway up the driveway. He hadn't even retrieved his mail from the mailbox.

 

-

 

Dean didn't sleep that night. He wanted to say he spent the night reading, but he couldn't make himself start. The manuscript sat on his desk, taunting him, reminding him of what he'd fucked up. Reminding him of what he might have just lost.

Ms Moseley had no patience for his excuses that morning.

“I just didn't sleep well, that's all. I'm fine.”

“ _Don't_ lie to me. You're not fine. And you shouldn't be, should you?”

“I...what?”

“I know that look. You did something stupid, and now you're wallowing in it.”

“Hey,” Dean grumbled. “I'm not _wallowing_.”

“Would you prefer pouting? Moping? Or maybe just plain self-pitying?”

“Okay, okay. Yeah, I really messed up. But it's not like there's anything I can do to fix it now,” he sighed.

“Only if you keep telling yourself that. _Something_ has been bothering you for weeks, and now you come out here looking like your heart's broken? This is something important to you, isn't it?”

“Yeah, he is,” Dean sighed without thinking.

“Oh, I see, it's a some _one._ Dean,” she said more kindly. “If he's this important to you, you _have_ to try to make it right. Even if it doesn't work out, you have to _try._ Things happen, and people hurt each other when they don't mean to. That's unavoidable. But it doesn't have to mean it's over unless you let it be.”

“I don't even know where to start.”

“You'll figure it out.” She wrapped him in a warm hug – not as comforting as hugging Cas would be, but he still felt better than he had in weeks.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

She hummed in acknowledgement. “Now get back to work, or Frank's going to think you were abducted. _Again_. And I'll have to hear about it for a week, _again._ ”

He left smiling.

It didn't last. When he got to Castiel's house, nobody was waiting for him. He didn't have any mail for him again, and he had no reason to stop without Castiel there waiting for him to talk...but he pulled to a stop next to the mailbox anyway, holding his breath, waiting for Castiel to come rushing out the door. Hell, Dean would be happy if he came out to yell at him, curse at him – _whatever,_ as long as he came out.

When he didn't come after five minutes, Dean forced himself to start up the truck and keep driving. He stared at Castiel's mailbox in the mirror until he turned the corner.

 

-

 

He couldn't read it. He couldn't put his finger on _why_ , but he couldn't make himself do it.

And every morning, Castiel wasn't there.

Then one morning, he realized something was off. He stared at the house for a long minute before he figured it out – the porch furniture was gone.

Castiel's table, chairs, picnic umbrella – the barbecue he'd confessed to never using, the birdfeeder hanging from the gutter – all of it was gone.

Panic bubbled up in Dean's stomach. Castiel was actually going to move. Dean had thought about it – _moped_ about it, sure, yes, whatever – but he'd never actually seriously _thought_ about it. Dean was going to be too late.

He finished his route as fast as he could and rushed home to read.

 

-

 

The next morning was Sunday, and he hadn't slept again. But he'd finished it. All 600 pages, he'd finished.

And _he_ was there. Dean had found himself scattered all over the pages. Not him explicitly, not him by name, but his freckles. His green eyes. His cocky smile and calloused hands, his _words,_ the way he spoke. Spread out throughout the cast of characters, Dean was suffused throughout the entire book.

He was an _idiot_. He was an absolute idiot. If he'd just -

But he _hadn't_ , and he couldn't undo what he'd done but now he had to fix it. Castiel couldn't have made his feelings any plainer if he'd told Dean to his face. Hell, Dean wouldn't have been able to let himself believe him if he had.

But _this._ There was no denying it or hiding from it after what he'd read. Castiel felt the same way Dean did – or had, before Dean ruined it. But no, fuck that – if he felt anywhere near as strongly as Dean did, then one argument, one fight would not be enough to kill it. It _couldn't_. So Sunday or not, it was time to go set things straight.

And he might have read the book just in time – or maybe it was too late already, because when he pulled up in the Impala there was a moving van in Castiel's driveway. He parked behind it, part of him irrationally convinced that if he blocked it in, Castiel couldn't leave.

He had never actually been to Castiel's front door before, but he raced up the steps and pounded impatiently on it. He could hear him, moving around inside the house, but he got no answer.

“Cas, please,” he called out. “I know you're in there. Please, just come out and talk to me.”

He heard footsteps, coming to a stop right on the other side of the door.

But it didn't open.

“Cas,” he sighed, leaning his head on the wall. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it.”

The door opened a crack. “Then why did you say it?” Castiel growled.

“Because I'm an idiot, Cas. Because I was losing you and I couldn't stand it. So I guess I was gonna push you away first.”

“Losing me? How were you losing me?”

Dean gestured vaguely towards the driveway. “Like this, Cas. You're...moving. I knew you would by the second week of your trip. New York has everything for you, and there's...nothing here.”

Castiel pulled the door open a little more, frowning silently at Dean.

“I didn't mean it when I said we weren't friends. You know I didn't. But I _am_ just a mailman, Cas, and I've got nothing else going for me. You're gonna take off and be something big, and I've got nothing to offer against all that.”

Castiel flung the door the rest of the way open, hinges squealing in protest, and stalked out onto the porch, blue eyes blazing.

“You've got _nothing to offer?_ Dean, you were my only real support over these past months. You were _there_ for me, you made time for me _every_ day, you made me smile and you made me laugh. Seeing _you_ every morning gave me something to look forward to after every night I spent hating everything I wrote and wanting to give up. You believed in me, and you helped me keep believing in myself. How is that _nothing_?”

“Cas,” Dean said, eyes wide.

“ _No_ ,” Castiel snapped. “I'm not finished. And what makes you think I need you to have _something to offer_ me in the first place? Do you think I'm so shallow? Why should I need you to be anything other than you, Dean? Why do I have to _need_ anything from you? Why can't I just _like_ you, Dean?”

He was not crying. He was _not_ crying, he was absolutely not. But his eyes were maybe a little moist, and Castiel's face softened. He reached out tentatively and wiped a stray tear from Dean's cheek.

“I wasn't _going_ to leave,” Castiel said softly. “Gabriel asked me to move, but I said no. I love it here. New York was wonderful, and I'd like to go there again. But just to _visit_.”

“But you're moving now,” Dean said.

“I...” Castiel swallowed. “I may have made the decision a little hastily. I've been _very_ upset. But I didn't...I just don't feel like I can live here and every morning, look out my window and see...”

“I read your book,” Dean cut in.

“Oh,” Castiel said, looking away. “I see.”

“I didn't know, Cas,” Dean said, reaching out for him but not quite touching. “I'm sorry. I never thought you'd...that you could ever...”

And Castiel was suddenly there, folding himself into Dean's arms. “Of course I do. How could I not?”

He looked up and met Dean's eyes. “I didn't even do it on purpose, you know. You just sort of snuck in. You've become such an important part of my life in such a short time...it seems like there's a part of you in everything I do anymore, Dean.”

Dean had no idea how to respond to that. Instead he squeezed him tightly, hoping Castiel would understand.

“I even...it's silly,” Castiel said with a small laugh.

“What?”

“I was so upset last night - about you, and about moving, everything - I had to bake something. And I didn't even think about what I was making until I'd already made it.”

“What was it?”

Castiel smiled shyly. “Apple pie. Would you like to come in and have some? And maybe help me unpack?”

And Dean couldn't help but kiss him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://lilypond.co.vu/)
> 
>  
> 
> ♥
> 
> inspired by [this post](http://authorkurikuri.tumblr.com/post/77213057746/au-ideas)


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